“If my colleagues haven’t been able to bring resolution to your family, I’m not sure I can.”
“I want to know the truth about Seetha Assan.”
“I told you, she was a government agent, FBI. She was helping bring down that chop shop.”
“And I don’t believe it. I never did. She was a woman living in fear and held captive, nearly killed. I had her under protective custody after discovering a crucial clue, but then suddenly she was gone, and instead you were standing in her place, telling me to leave it alone. I did until now. Here’s what I think: Seetha Assan exists. She’s the sister of Rashad Assan, a man who I believe was involved in my father’s shooting. Except he’s dead…” Jimmy paused, sneaking a look at the younger Frisano, as though replaying the events of last summer. Frisano had shot Rashad point blank after he’d enacted a string of murders, gunned down after a last desperate hostage situation. “I’m sure you know that story.”
“I know of my son’s heroics, yes. Look, Jimmy, I sympathize with your situation. I do.”
“But…”
“But there’s nothing I can do about. Forget Seetha Assan. She’s fine. She’s safe.”
“So you admit she wasn’t FBI. She was a victim. What, she’s in witness protection? Why?”
“Jimmy, you’re treading water right now. You can only keep up your stamina for so long. This is the deep end, and I caution you to stay out of it. I will tell you, off the record, and if you spill your guts to anyone, you’ll never practice your brand of justice again. I’m doing this for my son and for you. I don’t pretend to understand what the two of you…feel or might do after hours, as long as it doesn’t interfere with a career track that’s been laid out since Frank was born, and by telling you this, it’s the last favor you’ll get from me. I don’t expect another meeting of this type to take place again.”
Jimmy didn’t dare say a word. He didn’t want to interrupt whatever was coming.
“Seetha Assan was not an FBI agent. Yes, she’s safe, and has a new identity, a new life.”
“Why? What was she afraid of? What did she know?”
Sal shook his head. “That’s all you get. I’m just laying to rest your fears.”
“While only opening up a new set of questions.”
“Jimmy, I think we’re done here.” He looked at his watch for dramatic effect. “Minutes are up.”
Salvatore Frisano rose from the edge of his desk, intent on returning to a position of power behind it. It was a dismissal. Both Jimmy and Frisano stood. Out of respect or intimidation, it didn’t matter. Jimmy had one last card to play. He knew he had to say it, because if he walked out of this office without having laid it on the table, he’d never get another chance. He found strength within him. He was done treading water. He dove into that deep end.
“Blue Death,” he said.
Frisano stopped, his powerful cop of a father slowly gazing upwards with guarded, dark eyes. An uncomfortable silence enveloped the room, cold rushing in like a blast of arctic air. There was a Polar Vortex of the highest order, and for a moment Jimmy wondered if he’d taken things too far, too quickly.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained. He didn’t shake things up by being timid.
“What did you just say?” Sal asked, his voice quiet and his words spoken slowly.
“Blue Death,” Jimmy said. “I know it exists. I don’t know what it means.”
“To keep the metaphor going, Jim, you’re now drowning. Get out of the water, now.”
“I can’t. It involves my father, a fifteen-year mystery. Who knows how many other men, fathers, suffered a similar fate.”
Sal crossed his arms, thick trunks against his solid frame. He was still a good-looking guy at his age, a hint of how Frisano might look as he aged. Jimmy stole a look at the captain, a man whom he’d shared a bed with and a man who at that moment looked ready to distance himself from Jimmy. Had he pushed too far? Would Frisano regret his decision in giving Jimmy access to his father? Too bad. He was there. He had to make his point, even if he’d poked a wounded animal. Might as well see how bad the bite would be.
“Tell me what you know,” Sal suddenly said.
“I found another service garage, a chop shop, or a front for illegal smuggling.”
“What do you mean, ‘another’?”
“The one your son and I found last fall in Queens, where Seetha was held prisoner. It had the Blue Death symbol. Now another has surfaced in my neighborhood in Hell’s Kitchen. Place called ‘Rocco’s’ over on 11th Avenue. I saw the symbol again, and the man who seems to be running the place, he’s a local thug and a killer. Name’s Mickey Dean, the son of…”
He didn’t get a chance to speak the name. I was almost like Sal had ripped the words from his throat.
“This meeting is over, Mr. McSwain. Please, make yourself a stranger.”
“Sal…Lt. Frisano, you can’t ignore what I discovered, what I know.”
“You know nothing.”
“I suspect a lot,” Jimmy said, “And I won’t rest until I know the truth.”
Sal said, his words dripping with resolve, with finality, “Let’s hope it’s not eternal rest.”
§ § § §
“Mr. McSwain?”
“Yes, that’s me,” Jimmy said, stopping in mid-step within the bustling lobby at One Police Plaza. Frisano was still walking with him and halted as well. They had been about to leave except there was a uniformed policeman in front of them, blocking their exit.
“We ask that you wait,” he said. His badge read “Osnes.”
“Officer, is something wrong?” Frisano asked. “He’s with me. I’m Captain…”
“I know who you are, sir, but I’ve been asked to retain only Mr. McSwain.”
“Well, that’s all fine and good, but I think I’ll hang around anyway.”
Frisano outranked him, and the officer had no response for him. He didn’t need to, because just then the elevator pinged, and the doors opened almost not quickly enough as a tall man with a decent-sized belly, gray-blond hair, and a florid face came rushing out. His reddened face could have been from the sudden exertion, yet Jimmy knew otherwise. It was just the way the old Irishman looked after years on the job and years on the drink. He steeled himself once again as he awaited a confrontation with another senior member of the NYPD. He was in his dress blues, a collection of colorful medals indicating years of service and of dedication.
“McSwain,” the man said, a seething tone to his voice.
“Lt. Dean,” he said, “Do you know Captain…”
“Yeah, the fancy-pants captain of the . Trust me, we all know him and about him.”
“I believe at our headquarters, a level of respect is earned,” Frisano said.
“Go cry to your father,” he said, “Only reason you’ve got a command in the first place.”
“Unlike your son, Larry, what’s his claim to fame, being your son?” Jimmy said.
Lawrence Dean, Sr., shoved a meaty finger in Jimmy’s face. “You were a smart mouth back in the day. Nothing’s changed.”
“No one changes, sir,” the last word spoken with derision. “Just ask your other son.”
“I heard you were on our premises. I came to issue you a warning.”
“Oh, and what’s that?”
“Stay away from the Dean family, in particular, my wife. Maureen is fragile.”
“Well, I am sorry if I upset her. She’s the only decent person you’ve got left, but trust me, I’m far from done with the others, notably your son Mickey. He’s going down.”
“Down for what?”
“No doubt for a lot, once I’m done, but the biggy is murder one, my cousin Kellan. He beat him up first, but when he didn’t think he’d gotten his message out, he staged a murder and suicide. A young woman was an innocent victim, and before you think your office can protect him or, worse, bury it, know that I’ve got proof, and not just of the killing. If I were you, I’d start writing up the most brilliant
press release you can, denouncing any knowledge of your son’s criminal activities.”
“Are you threatening me, McSwain?”
“Quite the opposite. I’m giving you the chance to save yourself, plausible deniability. Your wife has suffered enough. Hopefully she won’t lose you like she lost her girl.”
Lt. Lawrence Dean took that moment to divest himself of any self-control. It was like he wasn’t at work, at a respected building where public safety was number one. He was just a man then and angered. Jimmy saw the moving fist coming him way, and he ducked quickly, avoiding the impact. The man lost his balance with the force of his punch, having nowhere to go but down. He was on the floor a second later, the sound echoing, silencing the action that swirled around them.
“Lt. Dean, I could charge you with assault right now,” Frisano said.
“Fuck you, faggot,” he said.
Frisano turned to Jimmy. “You want to press charges?”
Jimmy smiled down at the little big man, who still lay crumpled on the hard floor. He then noticed the rest of the people in the lobby staring at them and staring at their mighty lieutenant. No doubt he’d intimidated many of them and screamed at them too. Sometimes justice played out its own way. Jimmy shook his head.
“No, he’s inconsequential. Like father, like son.”
No one blocked his exit this time, and soon Jimmy and Frisano were back outside, the cold air refreshing and further enlivening them after the contentious morning at One Police Plaza. Jimmy took a deep breath, watching as the frozen mist wafted around him.
“You don’t make friends easily, do you?” Frisano asked.
“Oh, Lawrence Dean has thought he owned our neighborhood for years. He’s a bully.”
“He sure backed down quickly enough.”
“A sucker punch that only made him the sucker.”
“So, what, you have both father and son gunning for you?”
“Seems it’s a subject and a family I can’t avoid.” Jimmy paused and put a hand on Frisano’s shoulder. “Thanks for setting that meeting up with your father.”
“Yeah, I can’t wait for Sunday dinner in Brooklyn this week.”
Frisano’s words resonated inside his mind, and he held up his finger, asking Frisano to wait while he pulled out his cell phone. He dialed a number and spoke.
“Hi, Ralphie, what do you have for me?”
“Must be reading minds lately, Jim. Was just going to call you. Can you meet?”
“I can,” Jimmy said, “And I’m bringing company.”
“That’s a first,” Ralphie said. “See you at our usual place.”
Jimmy ended the call and slipped his phone back into his jeans. “Speaking of Brooklyn, you up for a quick trip?”
“No such thing as a quick trip to Brooklyn,” Frisano said. “I should get back to the 10th.”
“It’s only the Heights. You might find this interesting.”
Jimmy was evasive during the subway ride, enjoying more the looks Frisano received from fellow riders, all of whom suddenly felt safer in the presence of a cop. Jimmy felt oddly protected too, and in his mind he replayed the scene from the night before with Steven Wang, telling him that when it came to happiness and to finding the truth in your life, to look no further than what was in front of you or beside you. He could smell the cologne on Frisano’s neck, and the temptation to taste it and to kiss Frisano was as strong as ever.
“Did what Dean said bother you?” Jimmy asked.
“What, him calling me a faggot?”
“Well, yeah.”
“I’d rather be a faggot than a bigot,” Frisano said.
“Still, your sexuality doesn’t seem like much of a secret in the NYPD.”
“It’s only used when someone wants to make a point, a nasty one. Guys are jerks, and cops can be worse. I think I can handle it. I have so far. My father is strangely supportive…from afar.”
“You’re so macho,” Jimmy said.
It was a moment of levity they needed, and the smiles they shared carried them through the tunnel from Manhattan to Brooklyn, further words unnecessary. Jimmy nearly took hold of his hand but didn’t out of respect that Frisano was in uniform, and instead he just quietly rubbed a thumb against Frisano’s knee. It was enough for the time being. For then Jimmy’s mind repeated.
Thankfully they arrived at Clark Street on the #2 train, and the tender exchange was suspended. They were back to business, back outside into the bright sunshine of the day too. They’d gotten even more snow in Brooklyn, not a surprise, and some of the sidewalks were not yet shoveled. Frisano wasn’t properly attired. His shiny black shoes would probably be ruined after this trek.
“I’ll buy you a new pair,” Jimmy said.
“It’s okay, I can handle it.”
“Ooh, there’s that macho attitude again.”
Frisano stopped and grabbed at Jimmy’s hand to halt his step. It was a move Jimmy had seen before, and he went with it. He accepted the kiss that Frisano planted on his lips, deep and soulful, filled with a night’s promise and potential. Jimmy ran a hand across his rough cheek. Frisano might have shaved that morning, but the dark shadows of his cheek didn’t stay smooth for long. It elicited a strong response in Jimmy, the truth of how he’d missed this man’s touch apparent. They parted, this cop and this private eye, yet the two of them alone on the side street at midday made them just men, a stolen kiss in forbidden clothing.
“You’re gonna like Ralphie,” Jimmy said.
“Is he going to like me?”
“That could go either way.” A laugh accompanied his remark, followed by one last, quick peck of a kiss.
Lou Limerick’s pub was only a block further toward Montague Street, and soon they were entering the dank, dimly lit quarters. Frisano confessed to feeling like he was playing hooky, but Jimmy assured him it was a business meeting, albeit one that might come with a libation or two. Ralphie was already sitting in a corner booth away from the half-dozen or so patrons who occupied stools alongside the bar. It was a mix of young and old, all of whom turned when they saw that a cop had entered the joint, but when Frisano quietly slipped into the booth, they went back to their lives. No need for alarm. Jimmy sat next to him, the two of them opposite Ralphie.
“Well, there goes my usual first question,” Ralphie said.
Jimmy laughed, and Frisano looked confused. “Yeah, Ralphie, I do. This is Frank.”
Ralphie Henderson extended a shaky, aged hand, and the two of them met, at last.
“I’ve heard about you,” Ralphie said.
“All good things, I hope.”
“Life is a mixed bag. You get apples sometimes, sometimes hard cider.”
“I can see why you seek this man out,” Frisano said. “Wisdom only comes from experience.”
Ralphie signaled over to the bartender, who showed up with three pints. Frisano said that he shouldn’t but changed his mind when Ralphie gave him a look. He was in charge., It was his turf, and they did what he said. He carried himself still with authority, even as his years tried to betray his body. They clinked chilled glasses, then they drank.
Jimmy tried to absorb the moment Ralphie met Frisano. He wondered briefly if he could do the same with his family, imagining Maggie fussing over him. Such a thought just made Jimmy take a deeper pull on the beer. Then he shifted the conversation away from the personal. Ralphie had said he had information, which Jimmy hoped meant about the gun he’d passed along to him.
“What do you have?”
“Not good news,” Ralphie said. “I mean, I got what you needed. You just won’t like it.”
“Either of you care of explain what’s going on?”
Ralphie said nothing, instead focusing on setting the object of their discussion on the table before them. No longer wrapped in the rag, it was inside a sealed plastic bag. Still it didn’t lessen the impact of seeing the Glock between them. The effect was dramatic, just the way Ralphie liked to play it. He might be retired, but he still h
ad a flair for detective work. The reveal always played a big part.
“Okay, now I really need someone to start talking,” Frisano said.
“I found the gun,” Jimmy said.
“You want to tell me where?”
“Let’s just say it has to do with Mickey Dean. I asked Ralphie to run a trace on it.”
“And what did you find?” Frisano asked, turning his attention to the old man.
“I have a friend who has a lab within the NYPD. He knows a thing or two. He ran a ballistics test. Seems this very gun was used in a double murder last year over in Bed-Sty. It matched shell casings our boys in blue found at the crime scene. Really nasty case, too: mother and two daughters shot point blank in the face, stepfather brought in for questioning. Residue test was positive, and the gun was retrieved for a time.”
“For a time?” Jimmy asked.
“Sure, the case was solid. The man was going away for the rest of his life.”
“And where is he now?”
Ralphie stared at him. “Walking the streets from what I was able to find out, lack of evidence.”
“Because the gun was…”
“Taken,” Frisano interjected, “Stolen, from the evidence room.”
Jimmy shook his head. “Why would someone take it? If it proved a dangerous guy would go behind bars?”
“Because the gun was more valuable on the black market,” Ralphie said.
“You’re right. I don’t like this,” Jimmy said. “The fact I found it where Mickey hides out means he’s heavily involved in some kind of evidence tampering, of moving of stolen goods, you name it, which explains a lot, including the cop I saw him with the other day.”
“Mickey and a cop? Who?” Frisano asked. He’d pushed his beer aside, only a sip taken.
“Beats me who he was, but he was in uniform, and he accompanied Mickey into his lair, ‘Rocco’s,’ the chop shop I mentioned earlier to your father, near 11th Avenue. And don’t ask me anything else. I’m not interested in incriminating myself.”
“Jim, this is serious shit,” Frisano said.
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